


Bitter

by naomin



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Blood, Cannibalism, Gen, Gore, M/M, No Sex, Self-Mutilation, oh god i don't know it's just a fucking mess, unintentional cannibalism???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 20:11:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1912194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naomin/pseuds/naomin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a disgusting idea, Bertolt knows.</p><p>That doesn't stop him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bitter

**Author's Note:**

> me: what if bertolt cut off part of his body and secretly fed it to reiner for....some reason....  
> me: oh my god that's so disgusting ew ew what the fuck where did that idea even come from  
> me:.......  
> me:.... _I'M GONNA WRITE IT_

Bertolt is disgusting, and a coward, and a traitor.   The thought eats away at his mind and heart like a cancer, growing stronger and stronger with each passing week. When he lies alone in his bunk at night, when he trains with the others, when he eats his meals side by side with Reiner.

Especially when he’s with Reiner.

Reiner is straightforward and dependable and _honest._ The other trainees turn to him for advice or support as if it’s a natural thing, and Reiner rarely disappoints them. Reiner fits into their new life so smoothly that for a long time Bertolt wonders at it, amazed at Reiner’s confidence, at how the doubts and guilt that plague Bertolt don’t seem to reach him. It’s only later that Bertolt slowly comes to realize that it’s not just confidence, that sometimes Reiner really _doesn’t know_. Sometimes, Bertolt thinks that he envies Reiner for this. Sometimes he worries about him, about what the days when Reiner is simply another soldier say about the state of his mind. Sometimes – he’s ashamed of how often, because Reiner surely can’t help the way he is – he hates him for it.

And it’s during one of the times when Bertolt hates Reiner – for forgetting the secret they share, for leaving Bertolt to bear it all alone, for being able to innocently become just another trainee the way Bertolt knows he can – that the idea comes to him, a spiteful image flashing vividly through his mind. He pushes it aside at first, can’t even believe he’d imagine something like that because how could he _ever_ do something like that, and to _Reiner_ of all people…

 _…But he’s not really the Reiner you used to know, not like this,_ a dark part of his mind reasons quietly.

Even if that’s true, he could never do it, and even thinking about it makes him break out it a cold sweat of revulsion. But the idea comes back the next time he watches Reiner the soldier carefree and laughing with Eren and the rest of them, and the next time after that, until the next time that it's Bertolt's turn to help prepare dinner rolls around, and by then he knows exactly what he’s going to do.

So Bertolt really is a traitor, not only for the reason that the other trainees don’t know, but for reasons that Reiner doesn’t fully understand either, even in the rare moments when he remembers what he and Bertolt are.

And Bertolt really is disgusting. But that doesn’t stop him.

 

-

 

The blade of the knife is only about six inches at most, and the knife itself is a plain thing with a rough wooden handle, unassumingly light in his hand. It’s one of the ones they use for preparing food – Bertolt feels a twinge of guilt for anyone who’ll be using it to eat in the future, and wonders if he should just throw it away, after – and it looks almost absurdly small and harmless compared to the long and deadly-sharp blades they all use every day without a second thought.

Bertolt’s hands are shaking. He’s crouched in the lengthening evening shadows behind an empty building and he can just make out the indistinct sounds of the others from far away: somebody complaining about the punishing round of training exercises they’ve been put through that day, two voices raised in argument, and a third softer one that seems to be intervening. A quiet buzz of conversation. 

Someone laughing, rich and deep. It sounds like Reiner.

Bertolt tightens his grip on the knife.

He brings the blade up to his left arm, high against his bicep. He’s not as muscular as Reiner, but there’s still plenty there. Enough for a big slice. Bertolt takes a deep breath, and presses the knife forward.

It’s a feeble start, sending only the barest edge of the blade cutting into his flesh, but a line of red instantly begins to bloom. Bertolt grinds his teeth. The pain isn’t too much so far, but the sheer wrongness of what he’s doing has his hands already slick with cold sweat and shaking so much that he’s worried the knife will slip from his fingers. He tightens his grip, unintentionally making the blade press in a little deeper. More blood wells up, beginning to drip slowly down his arm in a few places.

 _This is going to be a mess_ , Bertolt realizes suddenly, panic blooming inside his chest and freezing his lungs. He should have taken his shirt off at the very least before starting, instead of just rolling up his sleeves, but now it’s too late to do anything about it, and he has no way to change his clothes out here, and even a single drop of blood is sure to be noticed by the others, and what will he say then? He’s an _idiot_ , everything’s going wrong from the very beginning-

 _Breathe_ , _Bertolt_. He imagines Reiner saying it, just like all the other times Reiner’s helped him pull himself together when his nerves get the best of him. Bertolt closes his eyes, trying to conjure up the sensation of a comfortingly solid body at his side, a strong arm rubbing his back. _Take it easy. There’s nothing to worry about yet._

Reiner – the _real_ Reiner – really would support him, if he was there, Bertolt reasons to himself. The real Reiner has nothing to do with the impostor who’s currently laughing with the other trainees a little ways away.   

Bertolt opens his eyes. His arm aches, cold and insistent, but his hands aren’t shaking anymore, and he feels infinitely more clearheaded than he had only moments before. He takes a deep breath, clenches his jaw, and pushes the knife forward.

If he had made a mistake in leaving his shirt on, Bertolt soon realizes, he had made an even earlier mistake in not taking a better knife. The one he had selected is perfectly adequate for carving away at a slab of meat, but the blade is still so blunt that cutting off part of his arm turns out to be an almost unbearably slow task. Bertolt has to saw at it, gingerly keeping his arm as far away from his body as possible in hopes of avoiding the blood that now falls to the ground in streams. It’s awkward and messy work, especially with only one hand. He should have cut somewhere on his leg- his calf, maybe- that would let him put the strength of both arms into the task. Another mistake.

The pain had grown and grown in the beginning, so much that he had gotten afraid that even if his resolve didn't falter, he wouldn’t be able to hold himself back from screaming and drawing attention to himself. But after several minutes pass, the only thing he can feel is a dull burning sensation that goes up and down his entire arm, unchanging no matter what Bertolt does. He isn’t sure if it’s some byproduct of the healing abilities he shares with Reiner and Annie, or if it’s just adrenaline – they’ve all heard stories of soldiers carrying out amazing feats of strength or endurance in the midst of battle despite being critically wounded. He’s grateful for it either way.

Steam is rising from the widening wound in Bertolt’s arm in thin, wispy tendrils. He wills it to stay like that, hoping feverishly that his body won’t heal itself again so quickly that it causes a spectacle, or even worse, renders his efforts pointless. Like so much about his powers, he’s not quite sure how to control it – not even sure if it’s something that _can_ be controlled –but as he continues, peeling away a thick slice of skin and muscle bit by painful bit, everything seems to be under control. Things are going right for the first time since he started the job, for the first time in even longer than that, maybe, and Bertolt starts to feel at ease in a way that should be impossible for someone working a kitchen knife deep into his own arm.

It’s then that he feels something _give_ under his knife, ever so slightly, and Bertolt has one second to register it – _that’s strange_ – before blood starts to spray out from around the blade like a faucet suddenly turned all the way. Bertolt almost jumps, eyes going wide with surprise and then squeezing close an instant later when he feels something damningly hot and wet against his face.

Panic again, more electric and primal than when he had fussed about keeping his shirt on earlier- _BREATHE, BERTOLT._

 _Breathe._ Air in. A few weeks after enlisting, Bertolt and Reiner had been practicing with their maneuvering gear together when Reiner had cracked his head on a tree hard enough to send him unconscious for what had seemed like an hour, even though it must have really only been a few minutes at most. Bertolt had let himself get so frantic with worry and self-reproach at not warning Reiner about the tree, not keeping a closer eye on him, that he had been practically useless at first.  That time it had been Annie, the first one to swing effortlessly down to the scene, who had said the words to him in her low, cool voice. Air in, air out. Everything had been fine in the end then, and today would be no different.

Air in. His arm is still spurting blood, but the flow is concentrated enough that he can find a position where the worst part of it goes towards the ground. He knows without looking down that his shirt is probably ruined, though, and it feels like something’s dripping from his face.

Air out. The condition of his face and shirt isn’t important now. He examines his arm as best he can. He must have hit something big without realizing it, some crucial artery or vein. What to do? He vaguely remembers hearing that keeping a weapon in place can staunch the flow of blood from a stab wound until it can be properly dealt with, but that’s not really the situation here, and he’ll _have_ to move the knife anyway if he’s going to finish the job. All of the trainees are supposed to get some basic first aid instruction before they graduate, but Bertolt’s squad hasn’t been taught how to handle anything close to this yet.

If his body really isn’t healing itself right now, Bertolt realizes, he could have just killed himself. Maybe he should try to stop the bleeding, but he doesn’t know what he’ll do with only one arm and nothing in the way of supplies, and, in what somehow seems like an even more important detail, Bertolt knows with every fiber of his being that if he removes his hand from the knife now he’ll never be able to take it up again.

 _This is insane_ , he thinks miserably. There’s a small mud puddle forming at his feet where his blood is currently mixing with the dirt.

 _Breathe, breathe, breathe_ …Bertolt’s concentrating on that, not sure what else to do, when another memory pops into his mind. It comes almost out of nowhere, in such vivid detail that suddenly Bertolt’s not crouched outside a shed in the dark with a knife buried in his arm, but instead standing in an open field of grass that blow gently in the wind, staring up at a wall that seems to stretch forever up into the clouds…

 _Breathe, Bertolt_ , Reiner had said then. _Don’t be scared. I’ll be with you all the way._

 _So much for_ that _._ The thought fills Bertolt’s mind just as suddenly and certainly as the memory had.

He straightens, grits his teeth, and begins to move the knife again. The spray of blood increases, and he watches it carefully. It’s important that he try to be as neat and careful as possible, because from now on he’s not going to stop until it’s over.

He saws on and on, until eventually there’s a big chunk of his bicep that’s more detached from his body than not. Whatever had been bleeding so profusely earlier slows at some point, and Bertolt doesn’t know whether that’s good or bad. He’s aware of feeling a little light-headed, and the unearthly steam that’s still emitting weakly from the wound and hanging in the air like a poisonous gas isn’t helping. When the only thing remaining is a scrap of skin, Bertolt flings the knife down and yanks his prize free without thinking, suddenly overwhelmed by the need to just be _done._

His own flesh is warm in his hands, and it feels somehow heavier than it should. Glancing over at his mutilated arm, Bertolt can see that the place he had cut at is slick and red, but to his relief, he can see tendons and skin already starting to regrow, as if something in his body understands that the job is done. 

_Halfway done_. Bertolt looks up, out of the shadows and over to where he can just make out the lights of the mess hall in the distance. He brings his still-healing arm up to wipe at his face, breathing in the mixed scent of steam and blood, and sighs.

-

For all that the first part of Bertolt’s plan had become so much more complicated and messy than he had expected, the second part turns out to be almost effortlessly simple. It helps a lot that the other cadet who’s been given the job of handling food for the evening is Ymir, who can be depended on to avoid as much of the work as remotely possible. So there’s no one to comment on the fact that Bertolt’s wearing a sweater despite the warm weather (the better to hide the blood that had ended up over most of the front of his shirt, despite his best efforts), and no one to notice when one of the plates gets meat that starts out surreptitiously pulled from a bundle of bloody rags instead of carved off the latest dead animal that’s been provided for their food.

Now everybody’s gathered around the narrow table, hungry enough from the day’s work to dig in eagerly even though the food they’re given is never much to get excited about, and tonight is no exception: hard bread, a small portion of grayish vegetables, and a chewy slice of…

“Rabbit?” 

“No way,” Connie snorts. He pokes experimentally at the meat in front of him. “It’s boar, I'm positive."

Next to him, Eren shrugs. “It all tastes the same, anyway. They might as well just tell us to go chew on our boots.” He glances over at Bertolt. “No offense.”

“It’s okay.” Bertolt mumbles, forcing himself to flash a smile in Eren’s direction. He had been fine earlier in the kitchen – it seems now like all the preparation had passed in a blur, really – but now his hands are clenched into sweaty fists under the table, and he can’t sit still. Across the table, Reiner is just starting to bite into his bread, the rest of his food still untouched. Bertolt had brought Reiner his plate himself a few minutes earlier, and Reiner had grinned good-naturedly, looking a little surprised, before getting drawn into a conversation between two of his neighbors.

Bertolt knows he needs to stop staring at Reiner and his food before it catches somebody’s attention, but he can’t tear his eyes away. Despite his best efforts in the kitchen, the part of his arm he had hacked away less than an hour earlier still seems to look damningly different from the boar, or whatever it is, on everybody else’s plates, but so far nobody seems to have noticed.

The moment when Reiner will pick up his knife and fork and take the first bite of Bertolt’s insane, repulsive work draws closer every second, and Bertolt is paralyzed with equal parts horror and morbid curiosity. What if Reiner can tell that something’s wrong, what if, worst of all, he somehow realizes what Bertolt’s done? Though Bertolt knows that would be impossible, especially for this weak, unsuspecting, imposter of a soldier that’s taken Reiner’s place now… 

“Something wrong with the food?” The question interrupts Bertolt’s thoughts, and his heart almost stops when he realizes that it’s _Reiner_ speaking, before he sees that Reiner’s directing a questioning look at Bertolt’s own plate. Oh. He’s been so distracted that he hasn’t thought to start eating himself. Bertolt’s shoulders sag with relief, even amused self-reproach – how silly of him to be scared like that – even though his stomach feels like lead and he’s never felt less enthusiastic about a meal then he does right now.

He’s able to look Reiner in the eye and smile again, shrugging a little. “Just distracted, I guess.” He forces his hand to pick up his own piece of bread, forces his mouth to open and close. 

Reiner laughs, before mercifully turning his attention back to his plate. His own bread is gone, and he turns to the vegetables next, sticking his fork into a mushy chunk of potato. Reiner eats fast, always hungry, and even if he’s saving the meat for last it’s only a matter of time now, Bertolt thinks. He chews the bread in his mouth mechanically. It tastes like sawdust.

He’s trying to judge whether or not it would be possible for him to spit the bread out into a napkin without anyone noticing when he happens to glance down to the far end of the table, and Bertolt’s whole body freezes again. From the very furthest chair, Annie is staring back at Bertolt. Her blue eyes are somehow both emotionless and damningly _knowing_.

He starts, almost choking. None of the others notice, all focused on their own food, or their friends, or on simply trying to stay awake after a hard day’s work. Only Annie looks at him, but Bertolt feels so exposed and singled-out under her gaze that he might as well have a sign pointing at him.

 _She knows._ The thought fills his mind like a warning flare even as he frantically tells himself that it’s ridiculous, that there’s no way Annie could have noticed that something’s off, and, even then, _absolutely_ no way that she knows the full extent of what he’s done. She hasn’t been anywhere near him all day, and he’s been so careful, it’s _impossible…_

Annie’s still staring at him, face blank, posture relaxed. She hasn’t started eating yet either. Bertolt feels a bead of sweat roll down the back of his neck. 

He turns away, forcing himself to swallow the bread he’s been chewing on for much too long now. Annie is always strange and aloof, even to him, and there’s no point in trying to figure out whatever’s on her mind. He can’t let himself jump to conclusions. _Breathe, Bertolt,_ he tells himself. He picks up his knife and fork with trembling hands, and then puts them back down again a few seconds later.

Reiner has taken a break from eating, attention caught by an elaborate joke that Jean is currently regaling the table with. There are a few more bites of vegetables left on his plate, and all of the meat.

Annie gets up, wordlessly sliding out of her seat and walking out the door and into the night. Everybody at the table falls silent as they watch her go.  

“What’s up with _her?_ ” Sasha wonders aloud as she reaches over to claim Annie’s untouched dinner.

Shrugs, and a few mumbled words of confusion before conversation resumes. They’re all used to Annie by now, and it’s no longer worth a second thought if she’s odd or unsociable. Only Bertolt continues to stare at the door. It should be a relief to have Annie and her creepy, piercing stare gone, but somehow he feels even worse, and no matter how many times he tells himself to calm down, it’s no good anymore.   

If Annie really _does_ know – _that’s crazy,_ the part of his mind that hasn’t begun to slip into panic mode still insists feebly, _how on earth would she know?_ \- what must she be thinking now? She hadn’t eaten her dinner – does she think that Bertolt’s slipped something to her, as well as Reiner? The very thought makes him feel indignant, and oddly hurt. Of course he wouldn’t do something like that to _Annie,_ she should know that he’d never betray her like that…

… _Just Reiner_ , _then?_ a small, nasty, voice in the back of Bertolt’s mind questions. _You_ can _betray Reiner, you just said so yourself, so what does that make you?_

Bertolt squeezes his eyes shut, and it’s a mercy that, once again, nobody else is paying attention to him. He has to get ahold of himself, now. It’s so _hard_ , though, his mind is going far too many places at once, and he wonders if this is how Reiner feels, torn between different ideas, different selves-

Breathe. Focus.

Reiner has started to eat again.

Bertolt’s heart is pounding in his chest. His left arm is throbbing, even though he knows that the skin beneath his sweater and beneath his bloodstained shirt has been smooth and unblemished for a while now. There’s not even the faintest scar left to mark the place where he had hacked at his own body and carved out a piece of himself to give to Reiner, to spite him or claim him or _whatever_ it was that Bertolt had thought he would accomplish by doing this. It doesn’t make sense right now, none of it does, and he’s suddenly struck by an overwhelming sense of injustice and self-pity. It’s so _unfair_ that Bertolt is the only one to suffer from the knowledge of the secret bond he shares with the other two, knowledge that Annie seems unburdened by and that Reiner has apparently rejected entirely. It’s unfair that it has to be them – be him - in the first place.

A few of the trainees have finished eating already. Reiner’s chewing the last of his vegetables. Bertolt imagines putting a stop to this, coming up with some excuse to distract Reiner or take his plate away, or even accidentally-on-purpose knocking it to the ground. Reiner would be confused, and maybe a little angry, but it would be _done_ , and perhaps eventually Bertolt will be able to forget that this idea had even crossed his mind. But he can’t move, can’t speak, and he’s not sure whether it’s because he’s frozen in horror with the full realization of what he’s done, or because somewhere deep inside him he still really wants to go through with this.

Reiner has his knife in one hand, fork in another. Bertolt has the crazily certain thought that he’ll be able to feel it when Reiner starts to cut, as sharp and piercing as when Bertolt had pressed the knife in himself.  

The fork comes down, sinking into Bertolt’s flesh. Bertolt’s stomach churns, bile he hasn’t been aware of until now rising up suddenly and overwhelmingly. He staggers to his feet, hurries outside oblivious to whether or not anybody’s noticed, and makes it about twenty feet before vomiting profusely into a clump of bushes.

He stays like that for what feels like a long time, bent over and gagging uncontrollably. He hasn’t eaten more than the single bite of bread, but his stomach keeps clenching long after there’s anything left to expel. 

After a while, he’s finally able to straighten up, wiping unsteadily at his mouth with the back of his hand. Bertolt’s eyes are watering, and his stomach still lurches from time to time, but he finds that he feels a little better, and better still the longer he stands there in the fast-cooling night air. He breathes deeply. Alone in the dark, Bertolt’s thoughts feel much less overwhelming and confused than they had before, and the whole day seems almost like a particularly grotesque bad dream.

Anxiety seizes him again when he hears footsteps coming up behind him. The first possibility his mind jumps to is Annie, come to confront him about whatever she’s somehow managed to figure out. Bertolt knows that he won’t be able to keep what he’s done hidden anymore, especially not when she has him alone, and the idea of confessing everything is almost a relief now.

A strong hand on his back. “You okay?” Reiner asks.

Bertolt swallows. “Y-yeah.” It’s hard to see in the dark, but Reiner looks the same as always. There’s a frown on his open, companionable, soldier’s face, and he looks Bertolt up and down with mild concern. “I’m not sure what happened,” Bertolt offers carefully. “I just felt bad all of a sudden.”

“Sorry for not coming out to check on you sooner.” Reiner sounds a little sheepish, but already more at ease than he had at first. Bertolt must not look that bad, despite his nerves and despite how sick he had been only minutes before.

“It’s fine,” Bertolt mutters, shifting on his feet restlessly. “Probably just – just something I ate. I’m better now.” He’s itching to go back inside and rejoin the others, can’t stand to be out here alone with Reiner, forced to make small talk like nothing’s wrong.

“You hardly ate anything back there, though,” Reiner ponders, before grinning, so wide and confident that his teeth seem to shine in the moonlight. “And I cleaned my plate, and I'm okay.”

Bertolt feels faint. For a moment he wonders if he’s going to vomit again, but he’s too empty, empty and numb. “Oh.”

Reiner pats him on the back again. “Let’s get you back to your bunk. You still don’t look so good.” He settles his arm protectively around Bertolt’s slightly higher shoulders, beginning to steer them both towards the barracks. Bertolt lets him, not sure whether or not it’s a good idea but beyond caring.

They walk in silence. Before long, the other trainees will start to stream out of the mess hall, headed for their own bunks, but for the time being it’s only Bertolt and Reiner alone in the dark, and the only sounds are their feet shuffling over the grass.

Bertolt’s distracted, lost in his own wretched thoughts, when he feels the arm on his shoulders shift slightly. Reiner slides his hand down to a slightly more comfortable purchase against Bertolt’s back, pulling them closer together in the process.

He turns to look at Reiner, startled. Reiner’s the type to be physical with his friends, that’s something that’s never changed. But this touch feels different, almost _intimate_ in a way that makes Bertolt’s heart leap with entirely unexpected hope. The Reiner who used to treat him like this hasn’t been around in such a long time, but maybe Bertolt is going to get a glimpse of him tonight, and that would be more than worth all of the horrors of the last few hours…

Reiner stiffens slightly as he realizes that Bertolt’s staring at him. He’s staring straight ahead, a little awkward, and Bertolt’s hope crumbles up and dies when he sees that there’s no new familiarity to Reiner’s face, that the Reiner at his side is the same imposter as always.

But the hand on his back isn’t pulling away. And even in the dark, Bertolt can see that Reiner’s _blushing_ , something he’s only ever seen a few times, and never from Reiner the soldier, the fake. Until now.

Reiner swallows. “C’mon,” he mutters, face still red. He gives Bertolt a little one-armed squeeze, the action brief but unmistakably bold and hopeful.

Bertolt says nothing, simply lets Reiner lead him towards the barracks. His arm is hurting again.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if I ended up fudging the details re: titan healing abilities or Reiner's dissociation! (I'm just....sorry for everything, really.....)
> 
> Come say hi [on tumblr](http://the-naomin.tumblr.com/) if you made it through the whole thing and aren't disgusted with me.


End file.
